Last year, around Thanksgiving, I
decided to apply to graduate school. I could see that my daughters, ages ten
and twelve, had entered a less needy phase of life, and I felt ready for my own
new phase. So I braced myself, recalling the last time I’d toiled over college
applications, circa 1984. This time, I was deeply grateful for the
technological tools that ease the process. Filling out all those forms, and
writing and revising all those essays, without having to load up my mother’s
IBM Selectric with carbon paper and triplicate forms! No need for Wite-Out! Hallelujah!
Even my Letters of Recommendation were processed electronically.
On each school’s application, I
found that the “Ethnicity” boxes were new and improved, too.
Some had a
“multiracial” box, equipped with a drop-down menu of “specifics”. Some encouraged, “list all that apply”, with an
extra field in which to enumerate the ingredients of “Other”. Even without the old discomfort of having to single
out my blackness, I still felt a queasy Affirmative Action twinge. Would my
exoticism boost my acceptance chances? And if it did, was that a bad thing?
In the months I spent waiting for
acceptance letters, our family life took an unexpected turn.
For reasons I won’t
disclose here (saving it for a future post), my husband and I found ourselves
looking for a new school for our ten-year-old daughter. We threw ourselves into
a past-all-deadlines dash to find her a sixth grade slot for the 2016-17 year. And once again, I was checking boxes.
The thing about my daughter is, her
looks don’t disclose her black heritage.
Her skin is “peachy” like her father’s. I’ve been told she looks
Israeli, which complies with her genealogical makeup: five of her eight great-grandparents
were Russian Jews. Her hair is smooth and wavy with no trace of curl or kink.
No spirals. Nada.
I checked the “multiracial” boxes
on her school applications, same as mine.
It’s who she is, and how she
identifies. I’ve heard her defend her blackness with a hint of defiance. I felt
it too, as I filled out her forms. And I couldn’t help but wonder how much
longer these statistics would matter: how many more dilute generations will
bother to claim a measurable mix?
The good news is that my girl had a
great classroom visit at a school filled with children of every imaginable
color. She fit right in, and reported
having made a few new friends in that one, short day. A much-needed reassurance
that, for the next three years, she will thrive in that new community:
Accepted.
